This is another crazy story from my book:
I’m nineteen years old. I’m on acid at a Grateful Dead concert at Hampton Coliseum. I’ve been to their concerts so I know what to expect. I’m not having a good time. I cannot handle watching the spinning, freaky dancers near me. The music seems possessed. The dancers start looking possessed. I think, “I’ve got to get out of here immediately. These people are crazy.” I run through the parking lot until I see a phone booth. I call my Dad and beg him to pick me up. Dad picks me up. He has no idea I’m tripping on acid. He says, “How ‘bout we go to Monkey Wards?” (that’s what he called Montomery Wards.) The last thing I want to do is go to Monkey Wards but I don’t want to raise suspicion so I agree to go.
The lights are blinding bright. I’m pretty sure every customer and the staff knows I’m on acid and they are staring at me. The thirty minute drive home seems like hours. Conversation with a parent while tripping on acid is challenging. I manage to not mention to Dad that I see a line of flourescent baby elephants doing to somersaults in the emergency lane.
When we arrive home Mom asks what happened. I didn’t say, “The Grateful Dead concert had a satanic vibe going on and I saw flourescent baby elephants in the emergency lane on Interstate 64 East.”
I said, “I’m not feeling well.”
I lay in bed and put on Crosby, Stills and Nash – “Our house is a very, very, very fine house.”